


Little Wing

by Hagen



Series: Cauliflower [1]
Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 16:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagen/pseuds/Hagen
Summary: Good things come to those who wait.





	Little Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Little Wing | Jimi Hendrix - https://open.spotify.com/track/1Eolhana7nKHYpcYpdVcT5?si=Vj259CyfTo-x9-XColruSw

                 Clyde Logan has no business being as big as he is.

 

                You wonder, sometimes, where he gets it from; Jimmy is stout and stocky, Mellie shapely and well-made, but neither of them are _tall._ You’ve seen pictures. They visit often, or so Clyde says, but you’ve never met them. On the farmhouse wall there is a picture, a glamourous headshot of Mellie – fifty dollars, you think, at a local mall, but say nothing -  resplendent in electric blue eyeshadow and false lashes that you are sure must have brushed her cheeks when she blinked.

 

                Clyde is ursine and towers above six feet. His shoulders seem to be as wide as you are long. He has thick hulking limbs and a broad back and meaty hands the size of dinner-plates.

 

 _Hand,_ you correct yourself. One hand is thick and broad, fingers like rolling pins. The other is metal, robotic, whirring softly. He thinks that you don't like it. You insist that you do.

 

                He doesn’t look like the other two in the face, either. Jimmy and Mellie share square, white-bread faces and pleasant green eyes and unremarkable brown hair. Clyde’s hair is impossibly black, impossibly thick, and his eyes are big and dark and deep-set.

 

                Something went on, you know, that meant he could buy the farmhouse on top of the hill, half shrouded by meadow, by wood. He doesn't often discuss it, shifting uncomfortably. He says that he and his siblings came into some money almost ten months back. You assume that it is an inheritance, and say no more about it.

 

                The farmhouse is old and sturdy. It is plain, but impossibly neat, any shelf-space available stacked with books. The floors creak and the kettle shrieks and the beds - there is a double in the master bedroom and a single in the guest - protest when sat upon. The dryer rattles but carries on like a soldier, and a tabby cat that neither of you have ever seen reclines on the kitchen window-ledge, observing you both. The house is warm and smells comfortingly of clean laundry and old dust and thick meadow, sweeping in through the screen door.

 

                You come to him. He is not at all the kind to initiate a single thing, not even a brief embrace, not even a kiss. He overthinks and overanalyses and ends up working himself up so much he bolts. You, however, are careful. It pains you when you kiss him, and his eyes go wide and soft. He is unused to this, unused to soft touches, to affection.

 

                He's gentle. At first it is all slow breaths and deep kisses. His body covers yours almost entirely. His mechanical hand lies on the bedside table - "I can keep it on, if you'd rather not see," he says, hesitating, and you tell him not to be silly - and you kiss gently what remains of his left arm as he noses softly against the side of your face. He's heavy on top of you and the bed is soft below. The weight of him pushes you down, but when he rolls over and brings you on top of him you splay your hands out across his big chest. His mouth is warm and wet and his tongue feels like velvet. You do not want to stop kissing him.

 

                You don't have sex. _Too much_ , you think, and the twitch beneath his dark eye and the uncertainty in his face is enough to tell you _not yet, wait_. You lie in the creaking bed and slowly kiss. You’ve never been so warm, you think. There are several moments in which the kisses increase in force and breaths come heavy and hips begin to shift, but you know to remind yourself _not yet,_ no matter how much you want him to.

You’ll wait. He’s gentle. You’ll wait.

 


End file.
